K. climbed the familiar stairs to the roof and lay down next to the spotter scanning the horizon. The man was on his stomach looking through a night-vision device. K. saw him only at night, in the dark, in a mask, so he had no clue what he looked like.

A chill wind and drizzle. Morning bade its time. Shells flew out and in.

“What are they even shooting at? They can’t see anything.”

“They’re just trying to keep us awake. And we’ll do the same back,” the spotter said. He spoke into the radio: “Sparta, you’re not shooting far enough. Yes. Position one.”

A shot of the mortar. A pause. A blast.

“Woah. You got ’em, it looks like. Now they’re worried.” He put down the radio. “Listen, Doc. Don’t you need a rifle? Or a grenade? I could exchange them for a couple of shots of butarfanol.”

“We’re out. I’ll pick up some more tomorrow.”

K. turned onto his back and let the rain fall on his face. He didn’t see morning arriving.

The soldiers piled up scrap into the back of a truck—bits of iron, shells, spent cartridges—all to be exchanged for money with which to buy food and water at the supermarket.

K. and Kostya drove to the hospital, stocked up on medicine and went to ask about the wounded guy brought in the day before. He was not in any of the wards. At the front desk, they directed them to the city morgue.

“I don’t understand. He was stable,” said K.

An ugly, cold five-story building. Stacks of tin coffins and a truck with the inscription “Cargo 200”—the bodies of Russians being prepared for shipping home—stood outside the entrance.

“Who did you get yesterday?” K. asked at the front desk. He was escorted to a walk-in refrigerator and shown two heaps of bodies.

“Where did these come from?” K. asked.

“The left pile is from the airport. The rest, they came from all over.”

K. shook his head.

“Come help me,” he instructed Kostya.

They sifted through the bodies, grimacing and covering their mouths with wet handkerchiefs. Kostya froze all of a sudden. His eyes widened and he turned away to throw up in the corner.

“What’s up with you?” K. asked without stopping.

“I served with those two,” Kostya managed to squeeze out between spasms. “That’s Moscow, and this one here is Vadim. He came to Slovyansk with us. Don’t you remember him?”

Again he retched. K. went up to Kostya and patted his shoulder, waited for spasms to ease, and pushed him out the door. He returned to the pile of bodies and continued sorting through the mutilated faces. And then he saw it: a leg with a black tourniquet. Half blown off. The tourniquet was still on. He never made it to the hospital.

K. breathed out and wiped away tears brought up by the acrid smell. He crouched by the body and felt to see if his finger would slip under the tourniquet. The finger fitted easily. Grimacing, K. went outside. Kostya spat and blew his nose.